Unhenged! Salisbury, UK--June 2001

The man who owned the bike hire shop, in contrast to most people we met in Salisbury, was a grumpy swine. When we asked if we could hire the bikes, he acted as though we’d asked to borrow his kidneys. Nonetheless, we were soon equipped with wheels, and set off on our 30-mile ride to Stonehenge and back.
We whisked through the town under the grey sky and were soon beneath the looming ruins of Old Sarum, which looked heavy and gloomy against the clouds. We’d been there the day before, and recce’d a bridleway that would eventually take us to the “parish church” of Neolithic Britain (according to John Aubrey, who asserted that Avebury was the cathedral). It all went very well until we encountered the Great Grass Trackway--a wide valley between low hills. All the surrounding field was covered with deep lush grass, which seemed to have descended directly from the platonic form of green. It was nice to look at, but traversing it was like cycling through the fur of a giant mole. The landscape was generally very beautiful, all low hills and a light haze of woodland away in the distance. And in the distance the woodland stayed, as by this time we were pushing the bikes with rapidly tiring arms.
Claire wasn’t impressed. I pleaded that it hadn’t said on the map that it was all grass, but it was clear that I had to find somewhere non-grassy for us to cycle soon. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as that, as there was no means of getting to another path for some way. I drew attention to the pleasant surroundings and the relative brightness of the sky even with the cloud cover, but I wasn’t popular when we did get to a junction and the path led--up a grassy hill, with even longer grass!
We toiled on, between two wire fences, and the bowl of land around Salisbury spread out behind us. The cathedral spire pinned up against the sky, blue grey but ghostly against the darker shades of the town and country surrounding it. As we sat down for a necessary rest, a deer bounced across the field in front, its springing stride a comedy contrast with our stalk-tangled struggling. I was despatched to go on ahead to see whether the path altered. Fortunately it did, becoming tarmac, which we sailed along, almost as though the Great Grass Trackway had never snarled us.
The route led on in a direct line to Stonehenge, and now tumuli began to appear. They always seem to be waiting for something, without impatience. Nor do they seem to have any expectation that what they’re waiting for will change them, because they’ve remained unchanged for so long. We got closer to our goal, and began to climb a slope towards two tumuli that marked the crest of the rise. Suddenly, as we rolled between them, Stonehenge sprang into view, framed by the ancient graves. It was a fantastic sight, full of the feeling that this was how the Ancient Britons and Romans had first seen the stones, and we stopped a while to appreciate it.
But then we had to negotiate the seething pit of violence that is the A-road junction just to the south west of the monument. Not a good place to be on a bike. We ducked and dodged between the vast crowds of raving motorised lunatics to reach the car park. Some people were complaining about having to pay to get in, so we nipped round them, got to the head of the queue and went in to meet the stones.
It is a shame that you can’t get close to them, but we enjoyed wandering about and listening to the lame “historical reconstructions” on the audio guides. Claire pointed out that the henge seemed “very friendly” and it did give off a sort of relaxed aura, which might have been caused by the way that even the vertical sarsens seemed soft and unthreatening. Like the tumuli, Stonehenge seems to be very contented, in spite of the incomprehension of its visitors.
Then we explored the “sacred landscape” surrounding the henge, looking at the Cursus, more tumuli (I always go looking for tumuli if they’re marked on a map--I think they’re cool) and other, related henges. Before we left, I was instructed to devise another route back, avoiding the grassy jungles.
And devise I did. I spotted that there was another henge marked on the map, only a few hundred metres from Stonehenge, and from there the route kept largely to roads and what looked like paved trackways (it wasn’t there when I looked the day before!). We set off in search of further henging.
The route led off the main road towards a cluster of farm buildings that were now beginning to shine in afternoon sunlight. The bridleway was straight and not steep, so I had to keep a close eye on the map to avoid missing the henge. All the fields were stubbled down, but there was nothing much to see from the track, and I wondered whether it was the sort of geographical feature only mapmakers can see (they’re the ones that get people lost).
Before we gave up, however, we came upon a tumulus like the mossed-over stump of a giant tree. Temptingly, it was fenced off from the field and had a little handy gate at its foot. I bounced up to the top, feeling daftly like one of the famous antiquaries of yesteryear, while Claire followed with a more long-suffering air. When I was at the top, I could see the henge in the next field. It wasn’t perhaps much for people who aren’t particularly interested in henges, but it was a very clear dark, raised circle in the middle of the stubble. Here and there around it were smaller dark patches, which probably marked postholes (it was most likely a wooden henge, like Seahenge). This was Coneybury, and we decided that it was almost as satisfying as going to see Stonehenge because we’d found it ourselves.
The journey back was uneventful, what with the roads, the tarmac and the smoothness. We were suffering mild ill effects from sitting on bike saddles all day, but we weren’t too tired. A cup of tea was very welcome, nonetheless.